


Drabble Collection

by YoungJusticeAddict



Series: The Misery Chronicles [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Cursing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, anger issues, ants and scorpions, background flyoming, blood tw, drabble prompts from tumblr, only a mention of donut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-13 20:43:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7985548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YoungJusticeAddict/pseuds/YoungJusticeAddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of drabbles from my inbox requests.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuckington-Jealousy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a_taller_tale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/gifts), [wash-needs-a-nap](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=wash-needs-a-nap).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wash-needs-a-nap asked: "I’m not the jealous type, I swear." - tuckington eyoo

“I’m not the jealous type, I swear.”

“Bullshit, dude. Tell that to Donut’s busted face.”

The door to the bunk swung out wide, slamming hard against the wall and shaking on it’s hinges as it settled. Wash’s hand gravitated to the handle, holding the abused wood steady as Tucker stormed to his bed, throwing himself on top of the covers with a huff.

Their friendly game of an old Earth classic had turned out with less than savory results, leaving the Red’s youngest on a cot in medical and a promised reaming by the occupied staff once he had been taken care of. 

“You’re totally the jealous type.”

The Freelancer stiffened in the doorway, fisting the metal knob, “He grabbed your butt, Tucker.”

“We were playing  _ football _ .” Tucker rolled himself over, giving his boyfriend an incredulous glare, “You’re  _ supposed  _ to do that.”

“Yes, but his hands were  _ in your pants _ .” His anger, and dare he say  _ jealousy _ , from earlier on the field was returning, Tucker noted. If he hadn’t injured an ally, he would have admitted that the trait was rather enticing, stirring something deep and possessive in the teal soldier. But as it stood, he agreed that Wash had been out of line.

“He said it was an accident. I saw Grif trip him, dude. No foul.” Tucker sat up on the mattress, folding his legs below him. “You didn’t have to hit him, though. That’s on you.”

“Fine.” Washington’s grip tightened, feeling the thin metal give beneath the pads of his fingers and warp to his touch. “I know. And when the Reds are tired of playing guard duty, I will apologize.”

Tucker scoffed, “Good luck with that. You punched him in his burn, Wash. That was a dick move. As much as he likes the pink and purple colour scheme, I don’t think he’ll like it on his face.”

“Lightish-red.”

“Not the fucking point, babe. Red’s are never gonna let you in there after that.”

The blond sighed, releasing the door knob with a creak, earning a suspicious brow-raise from the other. “I know.”  Washington moved to sit on the foot of the bed, but Tucker pulled him higher, closer to himself. “What do you think it’ll take?”

“For Donut, not much. Dude trusted the fucking Meta. He’ll get over it the second your stoic, saggy mug looks at all remorseful.” Tucker pulled him close, resting his head on his shoulder. “I don’t have a fucking clue how you’re gonna make it up to the rest of ‘em, though.”

“What if I cancelled their training for the rest of the week?” He asked hopefully, raising a hand to twist Tucker’s dreads around his fingers. Something in the back of his mind mentioned they were long enough to possibly do a really weird version of a cat’s cradle. He smiled to himself.

“That would work for Grif and Simmons, but Sarge would need something better. Training doesn’t really bother him as much as it should.” Tucker sighed at the contact, tracing the scars and connecting the freckles down Wash’s forearm, giving them each a soothing moment to think.

“Blowtorch?”

“Blowtorch.”


	2. Mainewash-Like That All Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wash-needs-a-nap asked: "He’s been like that all day." - mainewash

“Geez, what’s wrong with him?”

“The mission. He’s been like that all day.”

York settled back in his chair, observing their team heavy barrel through target after target, making a mess of the training room floor. He shook his head, flinching when Maine kicked a larger chunk of debris across the field, the strength behind the punt shattering the concrete on impact. North stood beside York, leaning against the window pane and following the dangerously corybantic agent with a compassionate gaze.

“I feel bad for the cleaning crews.”

“Me too.” North’s barely-there brows knit in worry, “Still no word on Wash?”

York’s hand twitched, his trigger finger, North noted, “Counsellor posted the board earlier. Marked him MIA.”

“Jesus Christ,” North breathed, inner workings expressing a deep sense of empathy for the afflicted soldier below. 

Their youngest teammate, their best friend and Maine’s lover, had been put on a mission deemed too easy for the rest of the squad. He had been paired with Connie and Wyoming to retrieve intel from an abandoned medical district on some backwater planet. In and out, is was simple. Or at least, it should have been.

Their information had been wrong, putting all three agents and the team’s pilot, Four Seven Niner, in the middle of a fire-fight. Rebel soldiers ambushed the pelican the second it touched the ground, assaulting the hull with armour-piercing bullets and anti-aircraft weaponry.

Niner had screamed into the mic that the landing zone had been compromised, listing off the immediate injuries soon after. Connie’s left side was torn up by scattered bits of the pelican’s wall and several stray bullets, her advanced armour doing little to protect the flesh beneath. Niner herself took two to the shoulder, making any attempt at flight difficult. Wyoming was surprisingly unharmed sitting in the copilot’s chair.

Wash had been another story. His HUD sent out an injury report back to the Mother that had everyone holding their breath. Five bullets to the lower back, shallow but still in dangerous places. Florida was the first to comment on their shared worry, _ did any of them damage his spine? _

Maine felt the chill run through his bones, only to be warmed by the flames seething the surface of his skin. He would go down there. He would get them all back safely. The Director denied him, speaking the words only a second before the plane exploded in a plume of smoke and fire on the screen behind them.

The air left him quickly, a heavy weight on his chest preventing any chance at relief. The orange-gold blaze reflected off his EVA helmet, highlighting the sickened cheeks below. 

He couldn’t be here, he needed to leave, to  _ hit  _ something. So he did. He escaped the war room before being officially dismissed, and occupied the training room soon after.

He staggered on his feet, the exertion of hours of destruction weighing him down. Leaning against  the last remaining pillar, Maine took a moment for things to sink in.

Wash was gone. The pelican had disintegrated in seconds. There was nothing left. Not even a scrap for the recovery agents to handle.

He slid down the pillar, settling onto the floor and releasing all his grief in a shaky sigh. His head fell into his hands, gloved fingers smoothing over the planes in his visor.

South’s voice filtered through his radio, loud and relieved, “Maine! Get your mammoth-sized ass down stairs to medical. They found the rookie.”

There was a beat of silence, an entire sixty seconds for the heavy to realize the meaning of those words. South cut in again, “Did you hear me, you big oaf? The brat’s asking for you.”

He growled an acknowledgment, pushing himself to his feet and racing for the door. He pushed past his fatigue, past the burn of over-stimulated muscles and joints, and barreled towards the medical suite.

It was deafening now. Medical personnel rushing from bed to bed, treating burns and bullets at amazing rates, calling to their assistants for needed supplies. Maine slowed, inspecting each cot as he passed.

Connie was on the first one, slowly stripping away her suit to reveal a blistered and bloodied hip and arm. Maine avoided looking for too long to protect her privacy.

The next bed was home to a very vocal Wyoming. He was only partially undressed, the leg of his undersuit sliced open to treat a minor burn. Florida sat next to him on the other side of the bed, eyes locked on the wound with Wyoming trying his best to lighten the mood.

“Knock Knock, chap.”

“Who’s there?”

“A rocket launcher.”

“ _ Reggie! _ ”

Maine smirked, passing on to the next occupant. Niner was still unconscious, but breathing. A bit of the tightness in his chest relaxed at that. She would be fine. They were all going to be fine.

The last bed was Wash, placed on his side to extract the projectiles from his backside. Maine could see the irritated skin of burns on the younger man too, promising to bring about a world of pain for the idiots who put them there.

Maine settled in a chair in front of Wash, reaching out a hand to wipe away the soot from his brow, earning a small smile from the younger man.

Wash reached out in return, sliding a finger across Maine’s dusty cuff. Coughing out a laugh, he wiped the plaster remains on the sheet, “That’s a good look.”

Maine nodded, taking the blond’s hand in his own. He had no plans to leave that chair for the rest of the night.


	3. Norkington-Life Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wash-needs-a-nap asked: "Stop questioning my life choices." - norkington :D

“Stop questioning my life choices.”

“Bleeding out is not a fucking life choice, York.”

“Language.”

“Technically it is.”

“You’re delirious.”

“No,  _ you’re  _ delicious.”

“ _ Nooorth _ .”

“Did you really just say  _ language _ ?”

The sniper sighed, tossing his helmet aside into the copilot seat and running his fingers through his hair. It was growing lighter. Greys? Probably. Every breath his bantering lovers took added to the collection of paling hairs cropping up on the back of his neck.

He’d gladly become a silver fox if it meant they  _ continued  _ breathing, bantering be damned.

Exiting the cockpit, he was met with the hauntingly desperate silver gaze of his youngest lover as he leaned over the other. Wash’s ungloved hands were painted scarlet, the unseen tips of his fingers buried deep into York’s abdomen, pinching tears in his arteries caused by the villainous projectiles until the healing unit in the locksmith’s armour could fix them. Their injured boyfriend lay prone on the cold floor of the pelican, grinning lazily at the eldest’s entrance.

“Heh, come join the fun.” He blinked slowly, eyes drifting to North’s feet as he passed York to sit in front of his head. Pulling it into his lap with the utmost care, the gold soldier added, “You’re delicious too.”

Wash rolled his eyes, sense of humor almost completely dormant given their current predicament. North breathed out a hollow laugh, entertaining the dizzied locksmith for the time being. The older blond’s nimble digits twisted in the cropped brown locks, rubbing them lovingly between the pads of his fingers to comfort both parties.

York sighed into the touch, a glossy sheen reflected in his eyes as he looked down to Wash. The youngest met them fiercely, braced for the next lewd comment, but relaxed a second later. The tense of his shoulders rolled away slowly, releasing his hold inside the brunette once he felt safe, clots thickening the repair under his fingers. 

Lifting his hands out carefully, he sat back in his knees, “He’s good.”

“Damn right m’good.”

“Shut up, York.”

North looked up to Wash, grey bowing under the weight of the blue, “No. Keep talking, York. We need to be clear on why you threw yourself in the way. The Director isn’t much for self-sacrifice.”

York groaned under his hands, annoyed at the prospect of one of their leader’s famed lectures. Still, the noise earned both blond’s attentions. The blood loss and accelerated healing left his thoughts spinning and his speech drunk. “Tell ‘em the mags were out and I ‘ad a take out the guy with my strikingly good looks….Up close.”

“Yeah ‘cause that’ll blow over well,” Wash chimed, bloodied hands hovering at his sides to prevent any more of a mess.”I’d really rather not have to pick spurs out of my backside, thank you very much.”

York closed his eyes, slurring his words further, “N’matter what we say...s’gonna be spurs.”

“Most likely,” North agreed, leaning down to press his lips to York’s forehead, “Get some rest, love. Unit will work better if you do.” Below him, the man hummed in approval, quickly drifting off. North straightened, eyes trailing from the brunette up to the other blond. 

Wash was fixated on his hands, fingers still as the bodily fluid dried slowly in the creases and nailbeds. York lost a  _ lot  _ of blood for just two little bullets. His eyes followed the darkening liquid, watching as it reached to pool in the divots of York’s armour. Red and gold never looked so  _ wrong _ .

North snapped him from his trance, his large, gentle hand on his face, raising his chin so he could meet his eyes. Gloved fingers stroked his skin tenderly, grounding him in the present. “Wash?”

He must have become unresponsive in those short minutes, because the sniper was in his face and York’s head was on a towel, not North’s lap. Blinking, he mumbled almost inaudibly, “What?”

North stared for a while, watching the younger’s face before replying, “Zoned out there, love. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Wash was quick to respond, earning a concerned brow raise.

Niner came on the mic almost immediately, letting her occupants know they should prep for a landing. “Home in ten, boys. Strap in. No one leaves the hangar until medical clears you.”

Neither blond moved, choosing to secure their third lover instead. Wash wrapped his hands around York’s thighs, while North returned to his head, holding in place.

The medical staff was quick to remove York upon landing, commending Wash on his quick thinking and mentioning that sealing the holes before the healing unit did probably saved his lover’s life.

Wash didn’t take much comfort in that, but nodded all the same.

After they were cleared, Wash wandered back to the hull of the pelican. Crews had already begun cleaning it’s interior, white rags tinting a million shades of pink and red as they were draped across the floor.

North came up behind him with a wet washcloth, taking his left hand gently to clear the sickly reminder of their failed mission. Wash turned to him in acknowledgement, but didn’t move his eyes from the floor.

North noticed, rubbing a hard circle to clean Wash’s wrist before raising his hand to plant a kiss on the bare skin. “He’ll be fine, love.”

Wash took the chance to slip his hand into North’s much larger one, ignoring the lurch his stomach made when York’s blood slicked their skin. His fingers curled around North’s knuckles to the back of his hand, sticky fluid gluing the surfaces together

“This time.”


	4. Grimmons-Did You Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a-taller-tale asked: Grimmons - did you know

“Did you know that ants can accidentally misread the chemical trails left by their fellow colonists and end up in a death spiral?”

Grif rolled his eyes and turned over in his bed, the springs beneath him squeaking against his movements as he looked over to his teammate. “Go to sleep, Simmons.”

The maroon trooper had dressed down for lights out, but physically refused to get anywhere near his own bed. Instead, he sat propped up against the wall by the door, legs crossed underneath him with a datapad in his lap. The bright screen lit his upper body and reflected off his metallic plating, shooting fractured beams of teal light across the dark room. 

Grif knew what was on the screen. He knew Simmons had taken it upon himself to keep track of their injured teammates, pulling up their vitals and stealing security cam footage from the infirmary to watch them even after visiting hours. Donut and Sarge’s pulses were throbbing in the top corner, their chests steadily moving under the low lighting of the medical unit in the feed that took up the rest of the screen.

Grif also knew that Simmons was prone to spouting useless shit when he was worried. Rambling about insects was nothing new, but it was still really damn annoying.

Simmons glared at the ants to his right, pointedly avoiding the scene on the datapad. They crawled their way under the door and headed to the empty space beneath the bunk. His brows knit addlingly at Grif’s words, easily clipping on the rest of his nonsense at the end of his roommate’s statement. “They get confused and start walking in circles. Sometimes the entire colony gets involved and they all die together.”

“Good thing we’re not ants,” Grif added with a yawn. He stretched his arms above his head then crossed them behind his head, keeping it propped up slightly to see Simmons.

“But we are  _ similar  _ to ants,” Simmons started. “Red and Blue. We follow each other no matter how dumb shit gets. We followed the Blues through all their drama and they’ve always been in a death spiral. It’s like their initiation ritual.”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“Yes it does.” Simmons tiredly glanced at the datapad, then up to Grif. “The Blues have all either died or been critically wounded on their stupid fucking adventures, unintentionally following each other to the doors of death just like the confused ants.  _ We’ve  _ always followed each other, and the worst we’ve had is that dumb tank.” Simmons’ voice raised higher and Grif sat up in his bed. “We’re due for a death spiral of our own, Grif. And now…”

Grif shook his head as Simmons’ words trailed off. It was too late in the day for this shit. He was too  _ sober  _ for this shit. He wasn’t even sure how it applied to them, but the way he kept going practically forced Grif to deny any truth in it for the sake of arguing. “No, Simmons. Just no.” He opened his mouth to protest, but Grif raised a hand to quiet him, “And shut it. If your loud mouth wakes up Carolina from her beauty sleep, I am not saving your chrome-plated ass.” He stood, letting the sheets fall to the floor as he walked a few paces to Simmons. “Whatever you think you’re getting at, I don’t understand. I’m too tired to understand and you are too tired to explain it, got it?”  _ Not that his exhausted babbling made any fucking sense anyway. _

“I-what?”

“Exactly.” Grif leaned over and snatched the datapad from his lap, turning off the screen before tossing it carelessly onto Simmons’ mattress. The maroon soldier stood abruptly, squawking in contempt at the treatment of his device. Grif ignored it and instead bent over and lifted the scrawny man over his shoulder.

“Grif!” he screeched, thin fingers knotting in the fabric of the back of Grif’s shirt as his captor turned back to his bunk.

Grif hastily tossed the younger man onto his bed and smirked when his lithe form bounced on the mattress. When he caught his eye, his voice was stern with a small dash of amusement, “Go the fuck to sleep, Simmons.”

He glared at Grif, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “No.”

“Yes.” Grif threw himself onto the bed, letting out a sharp breath when a bony elbow stabbed him in the gut. He settled on top of Simmons, using his weight to keep the other man in place. “Go to sleep. They’ll be fine, kissass.”

Simmons writhed underneath his heavy body with an eyeroll, words escaping him in an airy huff, “I can’t breathe, fatass.”

“Good.” Was his only verbal reply, but after some dramatic wheezing on Simmons’ part, Grif shifted slightly, letting his weight lean more on his left side, the side protected by solid steel cybernetics.

Grif let his eyes fall closed, resting his head on Simmons’ chest and tracking the soothing mechanical hum the artificial organs provided. When there was a hitch, his head rising with the quick intake of breath, his eyes snapped open again.

“Did you know that if you drop some alcohol on a scorpion it will start attacking itself?”

He groaned, flicking his bedmate in the throat, earning a choked noise. “Simmons, I swear to god, shut the fuck up.” He paused, considering. If he brought up ants because of the ones coming in from under the door……

“If there’s a fucking scorpion in this room, I am using you as a human shield.”


End file.
